Reviewing my astrological chart today.

I was born under an arrangement of lights that prefers the edges of rooms.

This morning I learned again that the Sun is tucked away in Aquarius, behind the curtain, in the twelfth house where things murmur instead of announce themselves. That feels right. I have never been good at standing in the center. I have always preferred the side wall, where the paint bubbles slightly and the clock ticks louder than it should.

The Moon, sits in Taurus and spends its time in the third house, counting ordinary things. This explains the comfort I take in small, repeatable observations. The same birds returning to the feeder. The same patch of damp ground that never quite dries. Words written daily, not because anything happened, but because the day itself did.

Pisces rises. That, too, makes sense. People often look at me as if I am already halfway into a dream they had once but cannot remember clearly. Venus apparently lives there as well, softening the edges, lending an kind of accidental kindness to my manner. I have noticed animals trust me quickly. People sometimes do too, and then say more than they meant to.

Mars and Neptune are together somewhere deep and dark, in Scorpio, peering into the long corridors of belief and hidden history. This explains my habit of lifting old stones, not to move them, but just to see what has been living underneath. I rarely bring anything back. Knowing is usually enough.

There is a quiet seriousness in the chart about value and survival, a Saturn lesson that unfolds slowly. I have felt that lesson all my life, like learning how to carry something fragile without being told what it is.

None of this feels predictive. It feels archival. Like discovering a weather report from the day you were born and realizing it never really stopped.

Outside, the light is thin and wintery. The ground holds yesterday’s cold. Somewhere nearby, something small is leaving tracks I won’t see until later, if at all. I write this down anyway.